


Heat

by orphan_account



Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 13:45:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fucking hotel is too hot. This bloody song isn't quite working out. Oh, and I'm not in love with Charlie Watts....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat

Keith sits the guitar down on the floor beside the hotel bed. He flips through the pages of lyrics Mick has given him to work on, but nothing comes to mind. The weed is gone, the alcohol dried up, and jesus fuck, this hotel room is stiflingly hot. A bead of sweat drips down along his neck. Keith flops on his back and takes to staring at the ceiling; idly drumming his fingers on the wall, hoping for a spark of inspiration. His inner thoughts drifting from one to another until the door to his room opens and Charlie sticks his head in. He looks just as sweat damp as Keith does. After opening the door fully, Charlie steps inside. 

"Hey, Mick thought it would be a brilliant idea to invite all his little groupie friends over, and well, could I stay here?"

Keith looks at him and nods. Charlie shuts the door behind him and settles on one end of the bed. Keith is still staring at the ceiling, nibbling on his index finger. Charlie lets silence settle over them before speaking.

"What’re you working on Keith? You’ve been right moody these past few days." Keith sits up.

"It’s this song Mick an’ me’ve been workin’ on. It’s gonna be a real hit, I can feel it, but it’s just not coming, ya’ see. I’ve never been real good with words-that’s Mick-but I can’t seem to work anything. 

Charlie nods and leans forward, looking at the notes in Keith’s lap. 

"What are you two callin’ it?"

"Haven’t a name for it yet" Keith replies and they lapse back into silence. 

Keith knows Charlie is a man of few words, and it fills him with frustration. Keith’s used to Mick’s constant chatter and silence tends to irritate him for prolonged periods of time. Where as Charlie is fine sitting and observing, even to an uncomfortable point when others are bothered by his brooding. Today is no exception. After tapping out two fags from a pack in his pocket and lighting them, handing one to Keith, he pokes through the lyrics of the song. Charlie then leans back against the headboard of the bed

Charlie hums to himself; occasionally taking a drag off his cigarette. He glances at Keith before suddenly looking down. 

"Wot? Something on me face?" Keith quips. 

"Naw, you just look…" Charlie trails off. "Bored? Confused? Something around there."

Keith snorts a laugh at that. Charlie sets the papers back on the bed. 

"Would you mind playing? Maybe I could help?" Charlie’s voice raises at the end of his sentence, like he was asking a question. 

"Well I can play for ya’ what I’ve got already." Keith says, picking the guitar back up off the floor. He rearranges himself on the bed so he can sit next to Charlie, and begins strumming it; his cigarette balancing precariously between his lips. He plucks at the strings with his fingers, allowing himself to get lost in what he’s playing. The sounds fill him up and takes him off of into interstellar space, high above the world, a high that is oh so better than heroin. Charlie’s eyes close and he listens-really listens-to Keith’s guitar. He can’t find any fault with the melody being played, not one thing. And when Keith finally comes back down, he lays the guitar down on the floor near the foot of the bed. 

“I like it, the song I mean. It’s fucking mind-blowing. It’s gonna be amazing once when we get the drums in.” Charlie says, smiling.

“Thanks, but all I did was make the riff-” Keith begins before Charlie cuts him off.

“I like when you lose yourself in what you’re doing, what you’re playing. It’s nice yeah?”

Charlie places his hand on top of Keith’s when he’s finished. Keith looks at their hands and thinks of how utterly warm Charlie’s hand is and how bloody soft it is and how his face shouldn’t feel this fucking red, but Charlie is just as bad. In these few moments Charlie tries to memorize the bumps and curves of Keith’s hand and the room has grown still; the heat creeping in on all sides. 

“It’d be good to let yourself take a compliment or two, alright?” 

When Charlie says those words, they come out sounding more like a command than a suggestion. Keith nods uncertainly; his mouth is dry. 

The hotel room is hot, the cars outside are too loud, the neighbours’ radio is thumping through the walls, but when Charlie leans against the headboard, his hand is still resting on Keith’s.


End file.
